We All Go To Hell
by achillies-eel
Summary: Dean can't hear him, though, because he's already gone. All the while, the morbid dirges of the rock song drum through his head like a broken record, beating out the sorry tale of their lives: "Mama, we all go to Hell." Song-fic. Spoilers for S3.


_A/N: Phew, wow, I can't believe I actually wrote all of this in one day without stop. I listened to this song for the first time in ages, saw the connection between it and Dean, and just HAD to write something about it. I know that I write a horrid amount of song-fics, but songs are my main source of inspiration. Hell, my longest fic spawned from a song title. I haven't taken a long enough time to go over this, but I just wanted to post it and get reviews, because I'm just a review whore like that. This was so worth all the school time I missed. If you like it, please take the time to review, because reviews are like deep fried crack to me. :D  
_

_Oh, and at the risk of writing the longest author's note in the history of fanfiction, I've never tried to write a story in the present tense, so bear with me if I've screwed it up. I may also have screwed up some of the details, but I tried my best. Really long author's over.  
_

_Disclaimer: I have never owned a TV show in my life, regretfully, and certainly not Supernatural. The Erymanthian Boar is an actual mythical creature from Greek Mythology, so I don't own it either. Nor do I own MCR's song, "Mama".  
_

_Warning: gratuitous swearing. Well, sort of. Do not be offended, I pray you. Spoiler alert for Season 3.  
_

* * *

_**We All Go To Hell, a Supernatural One-shot**_

**Mama, we all go to Hell.  
Mama, we all go to Hell.  
I'm writing this letter and wishing you well.**

**Mama, we all go to Hell.**

_*****_

"Dude, just drop it."

"Dean, we could actually have something here! If you'd just let me check it out, I'm sure I could find something-"

"I said _drop_ it, Sam." Dean runs a tired hand through his hair and flips over to face the wall so he doesn't have to see the disappointment and frustration on Sam's face.

He knows that his refusal to do anything about the deal pisses his brother off, but Jesus, Dean has his reasons, and he knows that Sammy knows what those are. Sam may regret that Dean saved his life, but Dean sure as hell doesn't, and he's not going to do anything to jeopardize an already shaky deal.

He flinches as the door to their most recent crappy motel room slams behind Sam for the God-knows-how-many time. Sam'll be pouting and sulking and giving him the cold shoulder for the next few days, and Dean knows that it's gonna be a bitch, but if it keeps his brother alive...

Dean will willingly--no, _gladly_--withstand all the toddleresque tantrums that Sam can throw at him if it means that his brother will survive. After all, isn't he--Dean, the good-for-nothing older brother--the cause of all this in the first place? He deserves whatever Sam feels fit to dish out... whatever _life_ feels fit to dish out.

*****

**Oh well, now, Mama, we're all gonna die.  
Mama, we're all gonna die.  
Stop asking me questions; I'd hate to see you cry.**

**Mama, we're all gonna die.**

**_*_**

Dean fiddles with the brass pendant hanging from the worn leather string as his mouth twists in humorless amusement. He remembers the day Sam gave this to him, at a time when he was still a sweet, innocent little kid. Well, he hadn't stayed innocent for long, Dean recalls, twirling the string absently. On that same, fateful day, his baby brother's innocence was broken--no more sleeping comfortably in the dark, no more laughing at 'ridiculous' fairy tales, no more drawing monsters during play time.

Then, on the night when Sammy probably needed him the most, their dad hadn't come back. On the one Christmas eve where they'd _both_ needed their daddy's comfort, he hadn't come back. Dean had tried to cover it up, tried to pretend that their dad _had_ come back, even if only for a short while, and had left them gifts and a Christmas tree. It was a lot harder than he'd thought to lie when you were feeling hurt and forgotten, but somehow, he'd managed it.

It didn't matter anyway, because the packages he'd picked up from Good Will had been for a girl, and Sammy'd seen through his lie. He'd fessed up then, apologized for his dad and for the bad present, trying to cover his own hurt and smile for Sam--because Sam was the only one that mattered.

Then Sam had given him his gift. It was for Dad, he'd said, but I want you to have it.

He'd protested, naturally, but Sammy told him that their dad had lied to him, lied to _them_, and he didn't deserve a present. Dean had stared at the present, embarrassingly touched. They'd had their best Christmas to date, never mind that they were eating Spaghetti-Os and Mac and Cheese instead of the usual Christmas fare.

That was the only present he'd ever kept, and one he's kept closest to his heart, as sappy as that sounds. He doesn't think he's ever taken it off.

He wonders what their mom thinks of them now. Is she proud of all they've accomplished? Is she be proud of how they've grown up and how they've taken care of themselves all these years, how they taken care of each other? Or is she be disappointed in them, disappointed in him?

He doesn't want to think about that, so he closes his eyes tries to fall into the silent bliss of sleep.

*****

**And when we go, don't blame us.  
We let the fires just bathe us.  
Yeah, you made us oh so famous--we'll never let you go.**

**And when you go, don't return to me, my love.**

**_*_**

He jolts awake with a strangled gasp a mere hour after falling asleep. He'd dreamed of fire, pain, evil... above all, he'd dreamed of his mother's disappointed face towering over him, larger than life and gut-wrenchingly unfamiliar... distressingly frightening. Even as he runs a shaky hand over his sweaty face, the images are fading, but he remembers enough that it doesn't make a difference. It seems that even his usual escape of sleep has been taken from him. They have his soul; what more do they want?

He lurches unsteadily to his feet as a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm him. He reaches the bathroom just in time to empty his stomach of it's meager contents--all he's managed to choke down during dinner. Another thing they've stolen from him: his precious appetite.

Distantly, he thinks that it's a good thing that Sam isn't here to see him like this, just as he breaks out into a fit of dry-heaves. By the time they're finished, he's doubled over on the bathroom floor, sweat pouring off him like a fountain as he tries to get his breathing under control and ride out the pain.

He manages to crawl out of the bathroom and collapse on the bed with difficulty. A sudden urge to laugh hysterically is stifled, but he does let a slightly psychotic smile slip over his lips. At this rate, he's going to be in Hell before he even gets there.

He hears the rumbling purr of the Impala as it pulls in front of the motel, and he struggles to control his pained expression and keep from looking like Hell warmed over. Sam's got enough on his shoulders as is; he doesn't need to be worrying about his big brother as well.

...Who's he kidding? Sam'll know something's wrong the moment he walks through the door, they just know each other that well. With a pang, he realizes that soon, they won't even have that much.

**_*_**

**Mama, we're all full of lies.  
Mama, we're meant for the flies.  
And right now, they're building a coffin your size.**

**Mama, we're all full of lies.**

*****

"Dean, are you sure you're okay?"

"For the last time, _Samantha_, I'm fine! Just peachy! Go... go _fawn_ over a lost puppy or something if it makes you feel better, but for cryin' out loud, leave me alone, would you?" Okay, so it comes out a bit sharper than he intended, but Sam's really beginning to get on his nerves.

Sam looks a bit hurt, so Dean swallows a sigh and tries to soothe his injured feelings. "Look, I appreciate that you're worried about me, but I'm fine. I would feel even better if I had a nice, _steaming_ pie with some creamy chocolate ice cream to top it off. Cherry pie, to be exact." He finishes with a pathetic attempt at the puppy-dog eyes Sam wields like a war veteran.

He doesn't think Sam will buy it, but fortunately, Sam forgets the original intent of their conversation and his momentary hurt. He snorts and pushes Dean good-naturedly, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.

"Dude, you are so one-track minded."

"At least I think of something other than the construction of nucleotides, geek boy," Dean says with a smirk, feeling a bit of his good mood returning at this familiar banter.

Sam rolls his eyes again, this time in real annoyance, and gets up off the bed to grab his jacket and the car keys. "Just because you're a total idiot, I'll go get your pie for you. But only if you promise to stop calling me geek boy."

Dean shakes his head, his expression warring between amusement and stubbornness. "Nope. As long as you're totally obsessed with your books, I have the right to call you by your rightful name. Geek boy," he adds, dodging the the half-hearted swing Sam aims at his head.

Sam smiles smugly as he pulls out his trump card. "If you don't promise, you don't get any pie."

Dean widens his eyes dramatically and whines, "Forever?"

Sam gives a decisive nod, that smug smile still on his lips. "Forever."

Dean takes all of two seconds to consider his options before letting loose an overly put-upon sigh of reluctance. "Fine, bitch; I swear that I won't call you by your _true_ name. And don't forget, I'm only doing this for the sake of all the pies in the world."

Sam smirks in triumph and strolls over to the door. "Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

Dean blinks and shouts at his back, "What's that supposed to mean?? And if they don't have cherry, get peach! Or blueberry! And none of that chick vanilla ice cream shit! Hey, Sam, you listenin' to me??"

Sam just waves a hand at him as he shuts door, locking it securely behind him. Dean lets the smile slide off his face as he collapses on his back, staring up at the cracked, peeling paint on the ceiling. Sam's still so easy to manipulate, he thinks, ignoring the lump in his throat and the faint niggling of guilt in the back of his mind.

**_*_**

**Well Mother, what the war did to my legs and to my tongue--you should have raised a baby girl; I should have been a better son.  
If you could coddle the infection, they can amputate at once.**

**You should have been... I could have been a better son.**

**_*_**

His dad never knew he remembered, but Dean does--he remembers everything with a sickening clarity. Fire, red hot, licking up the walls of his home, eating away at everything in it's path; his dad as good as shoving Sam into his arms, shouting at him to go, to run, to get Sam to safety, all the while with a strange emotion in his eyes and voice that Dean only now understands was fear; staring blankly as his home lights up the entire neighborhood, morbidly reminiscent of a funeral pyre, taking with it everything he ever knew and loved in a towering spiral of destruction and death.

His dad never knew how he felt, walking into a new classroom every other month, week or day, getting introduced to a classroom full of kids that would never understand what he'd gone through, or accept him for who he really was. He never understood how Dean felt separated from them; all those children with families, parents with real jobs, friends and siblings to share life with, and the general feelings of happiness and innocence that surrounded each and every one of them. His dad never knew how much it fucking sickened him to watch them from the sidelines, or how much pain it brought him when he came home each day to a distant and cold father, and to a whining Sam asking when they could go home. And--_sonofabitch_--how much it killed him bit by bit inside as he lay next to Sammy every night, trying to soothe and comfort him as he cried and whimpered and begged for his mommy to come back, that he'd be good, that he'd be _so_ good if she'd only come back and make it all better.

Sometimes (and even as he thinks it, he winces as he imagines what his dad would do if he knew what he was thinking), he wishs that he'd died in the fire, instead of his mom. If he'd died instead, Sammy would have grown up with two parents, as a normal kid, without all of this hunting crap that had taken away his childhood innocence way before it's time and kept him from having a normal life. Sure, they'd have probably been sad to begin with (and Dean tries to ignore the niggling thought that maybe they _wouldn't_ have been sad had he died), but they'd get over it, and best of all, Sammy wouldn't remember a thing. Mom and Dad would have eventually gotten over their pain and sorrow and gotten on with their lives, and somewhere along the line, maybe they'd have given Sam a little sister or bother or two.

If that had happened, then Sam wouldn't be so friggin' attached to his brother (_because he wouldn't have had one,_ Dean thinks wryly) and they wouldn't be facing this coming tragedy; if that had happened, Sammy wouldn't be facing the possibility of a life without Dean, and Dean wouldn't be trying to hide the fear he feels at the thought of his soon-to-be home.

So sometimes Dean wishes he'd died instead of his mother. And sometimes he thinks (with an added prayer to the heavens in the faint hope that his father will hear it and refrain from coming down to wreak vengeance on his ass) that maybe this is Fate's fucked-up way of turning things back to how they should have been originally, to how it should have been all along.

It's believable, and so sometimes Dean thinks on the possibility, while at the same time trying to ignore the on slot of depressing emotions that tend to tag along for the ride.

**_*_**

**And when we go, don't blame us, yeah.  
We let the Fires just bathe us, _yeah_.  
You made us oh so famous--we'll never let you go.**

**_*_**

Dean stares silently at the tip of his cigarette, watching the white paper curl inwards, the miniature coal slowly burning the paper and turning it to ash. He takes another deep drag, still watching intently as the inhalation pulls in air and causes the dull flame to relight and burn away another millimeter of the rolled up leaf.

He's never really been into smoking, other than this one time in his childhood when, in a sudden burst of independence--or, really, _idiocy_--he'd snagged a few of his old man's cigarettes and smoked them off in some kiddie park. He half-smiles as he remembers the way he'd tried to be discreet, cautiously looking left and right between each puff. No doubt he'd looked like a complete idiot and most certainly underage, and thinking back on it, it really was a fucking miracle he hadn't been caught by the cops, much less Dad.

His smile blooms into a full one as he remembers his desperate attempts to get the smell off, nervous as hell that his dad would find out and hand him his ass on a platter. That smile fades as he also remembers that his dad was never home anyway, and when he was, he was too busy hunting down that damn Demon to be worried about his son smelling like a smoke stack. He recalls being both relieved and slightly hurt because of it. Maybe, deep down, he'd really just been begging for attention. Sammy would definitely say he had; it was just like him to start spouting off some psychiatric crap.

He absently watches the blue-ish smoke curls idly up towards the ceiling, sometimes floating near his face. He doesn't blame his dad for any of that, their unconventional childhood or all the shit they had to put up with... okay, so maybe he does. Just a little bit. And Christ, if he's going to have a fucking confession session, he might as well admit that he blames Dad for Sammy leaving for college as well, and for Sam's refusal to talk with either of them or pick up the damn phone for the three years he was away.

Though, really, he doesn't have the right to blame the guy, not when he's the one who killed him. Essentially killed him, anyway. Dad'd exchanged his life for _Dean's_, so Dean might as well have killed him himself. Now Dad was burning down in... _that place_, and Dean will soon be joining him, leaving Sam to plow through all the shit in life on his own, without anyone to watch his back.

Sammy deserves so much better. He deserves a good, happy life without the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, pulling him down, breaking his back. He deserves to die of old age, satisfied with his life and with tearful grand kids and a loving wife to see him off. He doesn't deserve to be stuck in one shitty motel after another, having to baby sit his depressed brother as they both wait with varying degrees of apprehension and fear for the inevitable way all of this is gonna go down.

*****

**She said, "You ain't no son of mine. For what you've done, they're gonna find a place for you, and just you mind your manners when you go. And when you go, don't return to me, my love."**

**_That's right_.**

**_*_**

His third cigarette is down to the filter by the time Sam finally returns. He sees the cigarette--Dean sitting there, staring into space with the smoke nearly choking in the room--and does a double take. But thank God, for once, he has enough sense not to say anything, just dumps his purchases on the bed next to Dean.

Dean doesn't acknowledge he's in the room. He simply drops his cigarette and grinds it into the faded carpet, littered with God-only-knows-what, with his heel, and continues to stare blankly at nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam hesitate, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tries to find something to say. Dean wishes he'd just shut up for once and leave Dean to his depressing silence.

"So... I think I found a job in Ohio." Right. So much for silence.

"Really. What is it?" Flat and without inflection, Dean thinks with dark amusement that he sounds like a freakin' robot.

Sam flaps his mouth again, but seems to gather courage from somewhere and begins to ruffle through his bag, pulling out some papers and handing them to Dean. Dean takes them automatically, still caught up in his self-inflicted depression.

"Um, there's been a couple unexplained deaths--the cops are calling it animal attacks, with the bodies mauled by what could be a number of different animals--strange crop damages, like, major, and some strange horse deaths, too. I've never seen anything like it. I went through dad's journal, but..." He trails off, no doubt wanting Dean to ask him why. Though unwilling, Dean obliges him like the good little soldier he is. Was.

"But?"

"Uh, well, I couldn't find anything. Like, really nothing. Not a mention of anything that involves death by animal mauling, crop damages and horse deaths. I mean, it might not be paranormal?" He phrases it as a question, and Dean knows that Sam wants his opinion again. Dean really can't be bothered, though, so he just flicks open his lighter and lights up another cigarette.

He hears Sam sigh, one of his big, _this-is-such-bull-shit_ sighs, and Dean braces himself for a Sammy Attack.

"Dean, _what_ is going on?" Oh great, he's started with the, 'what's going on's.

"Whadaya mean?" Another drag on the cigarette, and the smoky haze in the room thickens a notch. Sam coughs, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt, though it's quickly brushed aside to make room for more angst and depression. Sam's going to be crawling all over his ass soon to get him to talk, and he needs to be able to counter him without the added difficulty of guilt smothering his lying abilities--because Sam's already got his _you-are-SO-going-to-spill-all-your-inner-secrets _look, and they haven't even started yet.

Oh yeah, this is going to be _so_ much fun.

**_*_**

**Mama, we all go to Hell.  
Mama, we all go to Hell.**

**It's really quite pleasant, except for the smell.**

**Mama, we all go to Hell.**

**_*_**

Half an hour later, the smoke's almost gone from the room, Dean's fourth cigarette is long gone and Sammy's stormed off in a huff. Dean allows himself to experience a moment of guilt as he gets off the bed, stretching muscles stiffened from him sitting in the same position for so long.

Dean wonders why he's being such a dick; having Sammy run off twice in one day has to be a record. He should be trying to make the most of the months he has left with his annoying little brother, but all he can seem to make himself care about is forgetting what's in store for as long as he can. He should be worrying about his bother and what's going to happen to him once he's gone. He should be calling Bobby to ask him to watch over Sam; he should be making arrangements so Sammy is taken care of while he's in... when he's dead.

*****

**_Mama, Mama, Mama  
Oh Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama!_**

**_*  
_**

He glances down at the discarded shopping bags on the bed, and considers eating their contents for about half a second. The simple thought of food makes his stomach churn, though, so with a grimace, he picks up the bags and pulls the stuff out to put away for Sammy to eat later. There's carton of melting chocolate ice cream, and he sets that on the table, thinking that maybe it'll be okay if he puts it in the freezer. The pie is still warm, and though it looks really, _really_ good, he knows he won't be able to keep it down, so he puts that on the table too. There's a couple more things that Sam's thrown in as well, and he just places them on the table still in the bag.

He hopes Sammy will be back soon; he has to admit that it isn't the same without the annoying little bitch, even when he's trying to get Dean to cry his eyes out and blubber a bunch of emotional crap like Sam's some kind of shrink. Sam's so great at this emo-shit, he wonders why he went to law school and not some psychologist-place, if there's even somewhere like that. Maybe once Dean's gone and he can quit hunting, Sam can go somewhere like that. Sammy's always been the one for school, unlike him. He'll have to mention that to him.

Without warning, his eyes fill with liquid, and he brushes at them with something bordering on surprise. What's his problem? He doesn't _cry_! It's Sammy's job to do the crying for both of them! Dean's the one that has to be stoic all the time and bitch about wimps and the _kids these days_. He hasn't cried since... ever. No, since Mom died. Since Sammy died, and he made that stupid but totally necessary deal.

Angry now, at himself and God and the world, he swipes a hand across his eyes and stalks over to the bedside table to grab his cell phone. He needs to call Sammy and tell him to get his butt over here. They have a demon... creature... _something_ to kill.

*****

**And if you would call me your sweetheart, I'd maybe then sing you a song. **

**But the shit that I've done with this fuck of a gun, you would cry out your eyes all along_. _**

**_*_**

It turns out that the creature-thing was an Ermanian boar. Erymanthian boar. Something. _Whatever_. Dean isn't really sure, anyway. Sam tried to explain to him, but Dean hadn't really been listening. All he'd caught was that it was a Greek legend, that it was a boar, that it was some goddess's revenge plan, and that the reason the horses were killed was because some god had killed a bunch of centaurs. Or something. Really, he hadn't exactly been listening. He isn't even that sure how one of them ended up in Ohio, never mind the US, but then, the mythical creatures of the past that tended to appear these days never did follow any set law, scientific or otherwise.

It's strange how apathetic he's feeling towards killing a living creature. Hell, from what he can recall, the thing hadn't even been a supernatural creature, not really. It'd just been some random boar possessed by the phantom of a centuries old creature. Then again, he's always been rather unfeeling when it comes to the evil shit they hunt; if it's evil, it deserves to die. Or so he'd been taught. He's always been a good soldier, Daddy's good little soldier.

He glances to his right where Sam is sleeping, his giant legs scrunched up in what looks to be a rather uncomfortable position, quietly snoring away. At least he can sleep; if Dean can't, it's only right that one of them can.

*****

**We're all damned after all.  
Through fortune and flame we fall. **

**And if you can stay, then I'll show you the way to return from the ashes you crawl.**

**_*_**

Another hunt. Another battle. Another useless attempt at redemption, or whatever the fuck it is he's trying to accomplish. He's really only going through the motions now. There's only a few months left till he's gonna bite the dust, and they've--well, Sammy has, anyway--tried everything possible to get him out of this deal. He's always known it was a useless endeavor, but he's gone along with it, if only for the sake of Sam's sanity.

He's already made peace with it, if one can make peace with the fact that one's going to Hell. Speaking of which, he should really stop using 'Hell' as a swear word. He's going there no matter what they try to do to stop it, and he doesn't think that using the 'sacred' word as a curse will win him any browny points. Not like he's going to win any, anyway. You don't win browny points in Hell, as far as he knows.

As he cleans the knife they'd used to kill the pig-thing, he marvels at it's sharpness. Knives are such... _useful_ things. They'd have died ages ago if knives had never been invented.

For some reason, he's hit by the strange feeling that he's not going to think knives are a useful, good thing soon. He doesn't know why, but that feeling makes him shiver and want to throw the damn thing away. He tries to ignore it and continue with his cleaning. No need to worry Sam any more than he already is.

With nothing more they can do--with all their options gone, no more favors to call in, and hopelessness beginning to set in--the only thing they have left is each other and a few short months. Maybe it's about time he went to Vegas again, hit the clubs and lose or win some money.

Maybe the Grand Canyon.

He's always wanted to go there.

*****

**We all carry on when our bother's in arms are gone.**

**So raise your glass high, for tomorrow we die-**

**And return from the ashes you crawl.**

**_*_**

_Three months later:  
_

Sam cradles Dean's head in his arms, begging and pleading with him to get up, to wake up, to stop looking so... _dead. _He tries to ignore the blood on his hands and the gaping wounds in Dean's chest, unsuccessfully tries to stop the blood flow.

"God, Dean, no! _Please_ no!! Common, wake up! You can do it man, _come one_!!!! Please Dean, just get up!!" Broken, he pleads in a cracking voice as tears stream down his face, begging for his brother to come back.

Dean can't hear him, though, because he's already gone.

In the back of his mind, a haunting, dark and entirely--if not horribly appropriate--line resounds through his head from a song he'd once heard and never forgotten. That, if nothing else, is what finally convinces Sam that this is real, that his brother really _is_ dead, and that there's not a thing in the world he can do to bring him back. This, and that horrible, _horrible_ song, is what finally makes Sam slump to the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks to pool together with the blood marring Dean's still body.

All the while, the morbid dirges of the rock song drum through his head like a broken record, beating out the sorry tale of their lives:

_"Mama, we all go to Hell."_

_

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_

_A/N: Wow. That was depressing. Huh, didn't know I had it in me. Or maybe I did. MCR just does that to me._

_If you like, review now!!!! _


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